Cherry's Jubilee: Singin' and Swingin' Through Life with Dino and Frank, Arnie and Jack

Contents

Foreword by Dan Jenkins

Preface by Neil T. Daniels

Preface and Acknowledgments by Donald Ross Cherry

Prologue: Before the Curtain Rises

First Act

1. Chipping through the First 18

2. D-Day

3. Singin’ in the Clubs

4. Swingin’ with the Clubs

5. Jimmy Demaret . . . By a Hair

6. Tommy Bolt

7. Mickey Mantle—Bobby Layne

8. The Mastins, The Masters, and The Walker Cup . . . Big Time

9. Snakes and Sinatra

10. Peggy Lee and ’53

11. Phil Harris: The Bear Necessities

12. Band of Gold, St. Andrews, and Rock and Roll Takes Over

13. The Plunge . . . And Everything That Went with It

14. Marriage Ills and Cherry Hills— Letting Go and Turning Pro

15. Turning Pro

16. Damone, Crosby, and Mother, God Rest Her Soul

17. Dean Martin, Jack Benny, and Number Three

18. In a Coma

Second Act

19. Caddies

20. The Dean Martin TV Shows

21. Shouting the Words

22. Living Las Vegas

23. The Football Greats

24. My Sixth Best Friend: Willie

25. The Break-Up

26. Bocce Ball

27. Losing People Who Meant So Much

28. Fourth Marriage

29. Francine Bond Smith

30. A Burt and a ’Bert

31. The Great Hunt

32. Quite an Honor

33. 9/11

34. Lately . . . Busier Than Ever

35. Comin’ Down the Final Stretch

36. Another 18 Holes to Go

Afterword by Neil T. Daniels

Photo Gallery

—

From the Bus of Willie Nelson—

They said: Well, if he’d put as much time into his singing career as he did golfing . . . etc., etc. And then others said: Well, his golfing is so great, he should give up singing. But enough about me—let’s talk about Don Cherry, my friend who did it all with grace, glamour, and beauty. He don’t drink or smoke—hell, what am I doing hanging out with him anyway? I have no idea! Except when I’m 75 years old, I want to be just like him, especially that sweet disposition.

—Willie Nelson

Foreword by Dan Jenkins

I first saw Don Cherry in 1947 on a golf course in Breckenridge, Texas, when he drove a 350-yard par-4 with a 3 wood. I asked somebody in a tool dresser’s hat who that was.

That’s Don Cherry, and you don’t want to know him, the man said.

Why not? I asked.

Because he’s always pissed off, the man said, lighting a Camel and picking up his canvas golf bag.

I said it was obvious Don Cherry was pissed off, seeing how he could drive a damn ball 350 yards with a f*cking 3 wood.

We became friends anyhow, and I followed his career as an amateur golfer who blew the U.S. Open and U.S. Amateur on numerous occasions, mostly by being pissed off, and tried to blow his singing career, mostly by being pissed off.

Someone asked me one time if Don had always been cynical, and I said, I don’t know for sure, but the only time I ever saw him laugh out loud was when he heard that two school buses collided head-on.

Something I remember about him in his golfing prime was that every time I ever asked him about one of the great Texas amateurs—Billy Maxwell, Earl Stewart, Morris Williams Jr., Joe Conrad, Tony Holguin—his response was, "He never beat me!"

The only thing I know about him for sure is that he’s the best golfer who could also sing and the best singer who could also play golf.

And I suppose if God hadn’t invented him, I’m sure I would have—for a novel.

Preface by Neil T. Daniels

My first encounter with Don Cherry was in the mid-1960s when, at the ripe old age of 15 (thanks to child labor laws), I had the good fortune of assisting a network television executive at NBC. Don had just finished his first of many appearances on The Dean Martin Show. Before I could tell him that he was my mom’s favorite singer, he was whisked away down the hall by the NBC Sports department to do an interview about golf. It was then that I realized Don Cherry was living a double life. The secret agent craze was beginning to sweep the nation then, and to this teenager, Don Cherry seemed to fit the 007 image to a tee. On any given morning you might find him at a prestigious country club battling world champion opponents. By nightfall, looking impeccable in a Sy Devore tux, Cherry could be at the Riviera crooning with the likes of secret agent Matt Helm (also known as Dean Martin). His five best friends in the world partied around him, earning the reputation of martini-drinking playboys who liked their drinks shaken . . . not stirred, and just like James Bond or Napoleon Solo, Don Cherry was always surrounded by the world’s most beautiful women. Cocktail waitresses to beauty queens saw through the terrible-tempered exterior he often displayed to find a shy, sometimes insecure little boy, often haunted by the voice of his strict mother’s upbringing. Well-known country vocalist Larry Gatlin once wrote, Don, you can be simultaneously the most exasperating (that means horse’s ass) and ingratiating (that means angelic) person I’ve ever met. Through it all, you remain my dear friend and I love you. Did his dual careers lead to his dual personalities? Or was it the other way around? Hopefully, this book will help you decide. All I really know is that everybody who has ever met Don Cherry has been touched in a unique and genuine way, myself included. From Demaret to Crosby, Dino to Palmer, Nicklaus to Sinatra, or baseball great Mickey Mantle to former U.S. presidents, Don Cherry prowled around with the world’s most intriguing and powerful names in the world, but unlike 007, his adventure is real and is not a fabrication of this writer’s wild imagination.

During the past year and a half, I did extensive research to learn more about Don’s career in our efforts to write an accurate and compelling book. From full-length articles to mentions in popular columns, it was amazing to find such a flurry of articles written about him. Almost daily, his name appeared in publications such as Las Vegas Today, Las Vegas Review-Journal, and Las Vegas Sun.

In the literally thousands of paragraphs written about Don during this period, I have struggled to find a single sentence that was demeaning or degrading about him. Honestly, not one bad word! I sort of went ballistic, telling Don that it couldn’t be! The readers want to hear dirt. They are not going to believe all the wonderful accolades without hearing the other side of the coin. Trouble was, there was no other side to the coin. Don had them fooled. It took me a while before it hit me—Don not only had two careers, he also had two separate personalities. One that reminded me of Walter Matthau in the movie Grumpy Old Men—stubborn, cantankerous, hot-tempered, and determined to achieve. He assumed little patience for mistakes and took solitude by exiting out the back door. Starting into his fifties, Don began to change. His other personality was now beginning to overtake him.

Don once told me that it took him 50 years before he felt comfortable performing in front of an audience. Now I understand what he meant. Up to this point, I think golfing was his number-one mind frame. Singing before audiences was tough on him. His nerves preyed upon his shyness, and singing was work. By 1985, I think golf was becoming more work, and singing was becoming more pleasurable. Maybe the word pleasurable isn’t exactly right, but the more Don enjoyed singing, the better he was becoming.

I don’t like to get too far ahead of myself, but Don Cherry can wrap his voice around the lyrics of a song with more grace, ease, and feeling today than he did in all the preceding decades. That’s not a lie. As Don began to enjoy performing for the people who came to see him, he began this Doctor Jekyll switch into Mister Hyde. He became relaxed and more engaging for the people who paid to see him. Okay, Don’s still as ornery as ever, but his tightfistedness is well placed into being resourceful and thankful for the gifts he still has today.

His travels have taken him to every corner of the world. Once even through those White Pearly Gates. Hanging on to life, Don lay in a deep dark coma for days. Unexpectedly he awoke to travel on and live a true rags-to-riches story. Don Cherry recalls everything as if it happened yesterday, and has a good-ole-down-to-earth way of looking at things. Yet, when it comes to talking about himself or others he feels might be offended, he immediately becomes very uncomfortable.

I realized that my job was to push his limits, to balance the colorful memories Don has with the tragedies and hidden secrets he has nestled away, never wanting to reveal. I know that I really pissed him off at times, but I wasn’t going to stand for a candy-coated, half-assed written documentary because his shy, sensitive, and headstrong nature stood in the way. The facts are the facts—no one will ever come close to what Don Cherry has achieved in a dual lifetime that is still making history. Who would have ever imagined that 30-some years after that first encounter, I would be sitting by Don’s side writing as fast as I can, enthralled with the story you have in your hands.

P.S. Don, I’m changing my phone number!

Preface and Acknowledgments by Donald Ross Cherry

As of this writing two people are missing: my mother, Ross Alma Cherry, and my closest friend, father figure, and one of the greatest golfers of all time, James Newton Demaret (better known as Jimmy). It was my original intention to dedicate this book to them. Now, there is a third I would like to acknowledge and include. Someone who is very special to me, and whom I love very much . . . my wife, Francine Bond Cherry.

I also want to mention my cowriter, Neil Daniels. Other than reading the Dean Martin Fan Center magazines he publishes, I had no idea how good this man was. Neil states (at the end of the book) how he and I are very much alike. It’s true. We have the same feelings about many things. In life, that’s a hard quality to find. As two human beings, Donald Ross Cherry and Neil Thomas Daniels love and respect each other very much.

As for what’s between the covers that you are now holding, I have tried to describe some of the greatest memories I have. I guess what comes to mind as I begin is an article once written by legendary sports writer Jim Murray. I was playing golf by daylight in the Sahara Open tournament and in the evenings I was performing in the Sahara Hotel’s packed showroom. Murray came to hear me on a Saturday night, which didn’t end until 1:30 in the morning. The following day I went out and shot a 38 on the front nine with two 3-putt greens and 29 on the back for a 67.

By Monday, Jim had written a whole syndicated article about me and finished it with: "Hearing Don Cherry sing ‘Green Green Grass of Home’ on Saturday night and watching him shoot a 67 with two 3-putt greens (on Sunday), and if you don’t get goose pimples, then you wouldn’t be impressed if Caruso went three for four in the World Series in the afternoon, and brought down the house with Pagliacci at the Met that night."

Of course there were also bad reviews and articles I won’t forget either. I have recorded a few inside. Knowing that it takes a little of everything to make a book interesting to the person reading it, I was advised by another very well-known sportswriter, Oscar Fraley, that you have to include sex in a book to have it sell. Well, here goes . . . I was involved with a well-known movie starlet. When it came to sex, being very shy and from Texas, my only thoughts were that all the lights had to be out and nobody was allowed to talk. After four days, she finally made a statement: "This has been very good, but there are other ways. Even as naïve as I was, I knew what she was referring to. When she asked, Have you ever heard of oral sex? I replied soberly, Sure. He’s a preacher in Tulsa!"

As you have gathered by now, some people believe I was my own worst enemy. Many of these people have become good friends whom I love and whose friendships I value greatly. Of course there were some who understandably would not put up with my temperamental personality. For the longest time I have agreed with them, but lately I have improved. To everyone mentioned or hinted at, this is written with good intentions and hopefully will not hurt anyone. I think writing this book helped me figure it out a little, too.

Prologue: Before the Curtain Rises

My given name is Donald Ross Cherry. Many years ago a columnist gave me the title The Golfer Who Sang His Way to the Top, a phrase that has followed me ever since. Other titles concerning my vivid personality were soon to follow. Some say that I probably signed in with a hard-fisted temper when officially entering the game of life. For the record, I didn’t break anything when the doctor first slapped me, although I probably took a swing.

I was very lucky to have been given two talents in life, singing and golfing. Both delivered me on the road to many heights. I have been fortunate to grasp a mantle full of golf trophies and sell a pretty good share of records, earning me a bit of gold. Yet, passing through the bridges of time, a single question still haunts me more today than ever. Could I have made it to grander peaks if I had chosen one career over the other? Would my name be up there—King of the Hill, Top of the Heap, A Number One, as my dear friend Mr. Sinatra would shout about?

Many people played an important role in my ride through life. Some celebrities, some athletes, some politicians, and even distinguished heroes. I have stories to tell about many of them, and for the first time I will attempt to confess my own disdainful secret: I never played the game. I don’t mean the game of golf—the game that went along with it.

Throughout the years I adhered to the rules as best I could, but every now and then I would stray out of bounds. As you know, that’s a 2-shot penalty. It has been a wild ride, as I split my efforts equally.

Now as I approach the final hole, I think I have figured out what the game is all about.

Find your seats . . . I’m ready to sing!

Let’s take it from the top . . .

First Act

1. Chipping through the First 18

Donald Ross Cherry first came into the world at ten o’clock on a cold Friday night, January 11, 1924. If you do your math, you’ll probably lose count, but that was five years before the Great Depression arrived. It was a poor time in America . . . the poorest. Thousands of investors began losing large sums of money as the stock market tumbled, which in turn led the country into depression. Millions lost their jobs as businesses closed and unemployment rose. Many lost their homes and some even lost their lives. Fortunately, my mother had a skill that was much needed during this time period and the years that led up to it.

Her name is Ross Alma Cherry—that’s where my middle name was derived. Born in Mahia, my mother was probably the most sought after seamstress in all of West Texas. She could take a linen tablecloth and make a form-fitted shirt out of it in a matter of minutes, Mom was that good. In fact, Neiman Marcus courted her to work for them, but she refused in order to remain at home and watch over her children. She was a wonderful human being, a hard worker, and very religious, attending the Church of Christ. It’s ironic that I don’t have as much to say about my father, since I was given his name.

My father, also Don Cherry, was a rig builder for the oil industry, which was prominent in the Wichita Falls area of Texas. That’s where I was born and where we lived. I really didn’t know my father, since he left at the start of the Depression, never to return home. I discovered that he was born on October 13, 1883, in Montague, Texas, a year after his parents, Leonna Johnson and Noel Cherry, were married. He later met and married my mother, growing up with her family name of Bosley.

Of course, a lot of folks could care less about a family tree or reading about one’s early years of growing up. I quite understand. I must warn you, though, shedding a little light on my formative years, and elaborating about my own dear mother, might compel you to become an instant psychologist. See if you can analyze the root of my hot-natured temperament or why, to this day, I kick myself for not picking one course in life to follow. Was it in my own power, or was it imbedded in me by my mother’s careful guidance? If you think you can solve the clues and come up with the answers that I have been wrestling with all my life, I’d love to hear your theories. Of course, if that doesn’t interest you in the least, you always have the option of skipping this chapter now and beginning with chapter three.

The thought that my own father didn’t like me much was a great burden to carry as a child. I came to believe that my father didn’t think I was really his. As I grew older, I learned that my father consumed alcohol—a bit more than his share, and at times a bit more than that. My guess is that hard times fell prey upon him, and my strong-willed mother was more than he could handle. Other families experienced similar circumstances, but I think needing a father was much more important because my mother was so dominating. She did everything in her power to be both Mom and Dad to me, but that also made her a very strict woman who exercised authority over much of what I did as a child. I sort of assumed his place in line for her to control.

Actually, I was really a good kid. Mother made sure of that. As a seamstress, she owned many yardsticks for measuring and disciplining. She used them quite frequently for both. Mom also knew that I was afraid of the dark, and if I wasn’t careful, she would wait until dusk to send me to Mr. Davis’ grocery store for a needed item. I don’t know what the world’s record was in those days for the 880, but I must have set a new one every time she made me go.

Ross Alma was only 5'5, but weighed 240 pounds. That also helped her take command over me. I remember we had a next-door neighbor who worked all night at the dairy, and needed to sleep during the days. We were told to be quiet when playing outside, so we wouldn’t wake up Mr. Moore. Well, one day I had heard this brand-new song called Pistol Packin’ Mama" by Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters that tickled my fancy, and I had to try it out at the top of my lungs. Of course, I had to belt it from atop the chinaberry tree in our front yard.

Mom flew out of that house as fast as a Texas tornado and told me to come down from that tree that instant. Realizing that she had a three-sided yardstick in her hand, and what it was gonna to be used for, I declined her request.

Knowing her parting words would do me more harm than that yardstick, my mother walked back inside and muttered, "It will get dark!"

Never seeing paper money until I was five, I hunted empty milk bottles for the two cents each one could fetch. When my Aunt Vivian arrived one day and handed me two brand-new dollar bills, I thought the well had struck oil. I packed those crisp notes away and didn’t spend them for nearly six years. That should give you a glimpse into how formidable times were.

To help supplement our income, we canned fruits and vegetables to sell, picked cotton, and took in washing. From the moment I can remember, I would help my mom hang up the clothes we had taken in to wash. The backyard had these long rows of clotheslines that stretched from end to end over the top of the vegetable garden we planted. There were three rows, then an aisle, and three more rows behind that. The poles themselves were made so one could raise and lower the lines. I would reach as high as I could to pin the wet items as straight as possible. The neater the shirts and dresses were hung, the easier it was for Ross Alma to press them after they dried. The butter beans, lettuce, and tomato plants would soak up whatever moisture dripped from above.

I can still picture that little house we lived in on 26th Street. It sat on the north side of the street and had a screened-in porch with two bedrooms. My mother’s sewing machine and materials were set up on a four-foot round wooden table in the living room that sort of melted into the dining area. When ladies came to try on their dresses, I would have to go into the back bedroom and wait there until they were finished. Then, it never failed, Mom would insist that I come out and show them how I could sing. I’d sing one of her favorites, The Irish Lullaby or The Whiffenpoof Song. I don’t think she realized how shy I was and how it scared me each time. It was probably due to the fact that she was such the opposite. Her personality was so commanding and outgoing that I fell behind her presence. That feeling of being shy lasted a long time . . . would you believe about 50 years?

Much has been said and written about the special bond between mothers and daughters and even fathers and daughters. But to sons, moms are like guarded secrets. Rarely does one recall hearing a son elaborate on his mother in excessive detail. I can’t ever recall a time another male has ever told me anything about his own mother. Men just seem to have a harder time communicating and expressing their feelings verbally. Believe me, I’m not an exception to that rule. I’ve now taken the time and allowed myself the rewards in recounting my memories of my mother. Ross Alma was very full of life and often had a good laugh watching the predicaments I would get myself into.

Take for instance the time I wandered outside to play. I looked all over the place for my old tattered and repaired softball. With no success, I finally gave up my search. Then I began looking for something else to do, and I spotted the chicken coop. After accidentally releasing our hens, I did the only thing I could think of, and ran to the neighbor’s house to grab the bird he had caged up, to replace ours. Little did I realize that this wasn’t your ordinary chicken, but a trained fighting cock—the meanest creature on two legs I had ever met. That cock tore me apart, clawing me from head to toe before I could get him back home and push him into the cage with the others I had captured.

There was also the time I escaped from home at the age of four. Somehow I managed to get the front door open and slip out onto the street. Wearing only underpants at the time, I instinctively made my way down the road and walked five blocks to the school that my brother Paul was attending. How I found my way there at that young age is very bewildering to me. Making my way inside the building and to the door of his classroom, I stood and called to my brother, P-A-U-L! He quickly escorted me back home, where my mother thought of a punishment while containing her laughter over the situation.

Years later, when I was old enough to attend the same school, I was assigned the same teacher, Mrs. Lewis, as Paul once had for history. On the first day of school, Mrs. Lewis told everyone to acknowledge their names when she called them. When she got to Don Cherry, I yelled, Here! Mrs. Lewis lowered her head to look over her glasses and snapped back, I seem to remember that you’ve been here before! She remembered.

In my mother’s busy schedule of cleaning the house and making clothes to earn us a living, I guess I was a handful for her. I recall on a couple occasions (and long before it was considered politically incorrect) she would tie one end of a rope to me, and the other end to the bed. It was her way of making sure that I wouldn’t wander off or get hurt while she tended to the chores at hand. It’s a funny analogy, but being tied to my bed like that might have been why I wandered from my bed during my early marriages. If I had one major downfall, that was it.

As for my childhood, I enjoyed it immensely, and my memories are good ones. I now understand why my mother had been so strict in raising me without a father. It was merely her way of bringing me up to have respect and gratitude for even the smallest things in life. She was such a delightful person and, in my opinion, a wonderful mother.

A turning point surely befell me on my eighth birthday. Mom had given me a complete set of golf clubs. She had gone to Zales and put a dollar down, agreeing to pay twenty-five cents a week for them. The set included a putter, driver, wedge, and 5 iron, and it came with the golf bag too! Little did she realize how far that $9 would take me in just a few more years down the road.

Although I was the youngest of three, I was actually raised much like an only child. My brother Paul was 13 years older than I, and he was out of the house when I was still little. Anna Lee, my sister, fell ill and passed away just as I reached my teens.

Anna Lee was such a beautiful girl and had a voice to match. She was so good, in fact, she became a teacher of voice and dramatics. Back then it was called expression—what a wonderful word that has lost its meaning over the decades of time.

As kids back then, we never fully realized how poor but lucky we were. Most of our neighbors were struggling along, too. On the eve of the Great Depression, in 1930, the population in Wichita Falls was 43,607. Most of the hundred or so industrial businesses around Wichita Falls either slowed down their production or closed up all together. It wasn’t until I was 14 that a major oil discovery was made in the nearby town of Kamay that helped turn the economy around. Up ’til then, most people didn’t have the money needed to see expensive doctors when they fell ill. So the U.S. government set up special low-cost training programs when families needed medical attention. They brought in interns, practicing what they learned on the live patients who needed care.

Mom took both Anna Lee and myself to the hospital when it was discovered they would remove our tonsils for free. It was basically a simple operation, and I came out just fine, but Anna Lee had complications. Displaying all the immediate signs of tuberculosis—fever, sickness, coughing, shortness of breath, etc.—she remained in the recovery room with pain for two days. After more tests, they eventually discovered what really occurred. Apparently Anna Lee had inhaled a small piece of her infected tonsil, which invaded her vital lungs. The interns treated her as they would their tuberculosis patients. Two days later, after her fever subsided, my sister was released to go home, while the practicing interns apologized for the outcome.

Mom made a special room for her in the house, where Anna Lee rested comfortably. To help her lungs heal, we kept the windows open for ventilation throughout the warm summer months. Nearly a whole year passed in my sister’s life as she vigorously fought on. Anna Lee watched what she ate and fetched plenty of bed rest. Even throughout her horrible ordeal, Anna Lee unexpectedly found a gleam of happiness with a handsome-looking young man by the name of Melvin Stengel. They came to marry, and Melvin moved in with us to help take care of and look after my sister.

Late one warm summer evening in July, as misfortune would have it, a draft inadvertently blew through the open window in Anna Lee’s room, sending a chill throughout her body. Loud coughing and choking woke everyone up. Knowing the gravity of the sounds, Mother scooped Anna Lee up and rushed her to the hospital. A few hours later, angels took my sister to rest. Shortly after, we lost her new husband, who had moved on and out after relinquishing his precious bride to the nemesis of life.

I’ll never forget those blurred images burned into my consciousness at her funeral. In all my bereavement, I looked up in shock to find my father standing in the crowd on that final day. I hadn’t seen him in so long, I was numb in disbelief. Then, before I knew it, he was gone. Vanished. As quick as he appeared, he disappeared. It was the very last time I saw him. Ever. Half the family I had known was expelled from my life at that point. You can’t imagine the emotions rolling around in my 13-year-old head that day.

My brother Paul was a handsome lad. Although 13 years older than I, we played golf together a lot growing up. Paul was very good at the game, and I usually acted as his caddie. One day Paul had bet three others a dime for every hole he could make, and promised to share 10 percent of his winnings with me if I caddied for him. I guess I was about nine or ten at the time, and probably wanted the money to buy more of my favorite treasured vice, Delaware Punch, so I agreed with his proposition.

We started early, and by the time we